


Bottles & Bodies

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One Night Stands, Questionable disguises, Snakes n Barrels era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 17:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: When he was being Pickles, the rockstar, in his red gloves and makeup and tight, low-riding jeans, he hit on chicks; when he snuck out to gay bars as Pickles, just some dude, with his blue wristbands and no eyeliner or eyeshadow and slightly less teased hair and even tighter, sluttier jeans, he hit on dudes.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Bottles & Bodies

As long as nobody found out, Pickles figured the worst scenarios he had conjured in his head would never happen.  The gossip, the cold shoulders, the colder looks . . . all the shit he’d left behind in Wisconsin, but would be so much worse to encounter again now, here, in the fucking tabloids and the faces of his bandmates, because he actually  _ liked _ this life. 

It wasn’t like he was ever going to fool around with any of the guys, even if Tony was pretty cute. As far as Pickles could tell none of the guys ate from both sides of the buffet anyway, and as a general rule the groupies were always girls, so it was easy enough to compartmentalize. When he was being Pickles, the rockstar, in his red gloves and makeup and tight, low-riding jeans, he hit on chicks; when he snuck out to gay bars as Pickles, just some dude, with his blue wristbands and no eyeliner or eyeshadow and slightly less teased hair and even tighter, sluttier jeans, he hit on dudes. 

And usually, just to be on the safe side, he picked guys too loaded to pick him out of a lineup later. 

So why. Why the  _ fuck _ . Had he picked the most straight-laced looking guy in this bar to sidle up to and ask if he could buy him a drink?

Probably had something to do with the fact that he was a little cross faded on weed and booze. . . . But mostly it was that the guy—young, probably not much older than he was—was  _ hot _ , and he’d wanted to so he’d gone in the bathroom to snort a little coke until it seemed like a better idea. 

Hot in a preppy sort of way, admittedly, with the glasses and the blazer and the nearly combed hair, nursing a scotch and soda while reading something and taking notes in a steno pad at a small table in the corner. But once you got past that part, there was a serious set of his jaw, an intensity to his gaze as he focused on what he was reading despite the noise of the crowd, and a firm decisiveness in his hands that Pickles had found himself obsessing over in stolen glances for the past half an hour. Good shoulders, too, and Pickles suspected he was pretty fine under that blazer and button-down. 

Pickles grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat in it without bothering to turn it around, folding his arms across the top of it and grinning at the handsome stranger. “Hey, whatcha reading?”

“Naming, Necessity, and Natural Kinds, by Stephen P. Schwartz,” the guy reeled off automatically. When this wasn’t immediately followed by Pickles losing interest and wandering off, he glanced up and did a double take. “Wait. You’re, ah, Pickles. From Snakes N Barrels.”

For a fraction of a second, Pickles did his best impression of a deer in the headlights. Because yeah, lack of stage makeup wasn’t much of a disguise, but no one had ever actually called him on it before. 

Then he recovered, and all his experience in bullshitting and performing under pressure kicked in. Pickles turned the wattage on his smile up a notch. “Heh, y’think? I could just be a handsome, sexy lookalike.”

The guy shook his head while still staring. “I’ve been to your shows,” he said with unshakable conviction. “I know it’s you.”

Without meaning to, Pickles laughed. “You have? Really?” He let his eyes rake pointedly up and down the other man, since he wanted to anyway. What he saw did not, in any way, scream Snakes N Barrels fan. For one thing, there was an honest to god briefcase wedged under his chair between his nice leather shoes. Not enough piercings or tats, for another—not that he could see at least, to which his lizard brain slyly added  _ Yet _ . 

After waiting patiently for his eyes to wander back up, the guy said seriously, “Really. You, ah.” Suddenly his confidence seemed to waver, even if his conviction didn’t, and he looked down at his book. “You stand out.”

Pickles considered. He wasn’t thinking too good at this point, which might possibly present a flaw in his whole ‘compartmentalization’ plan. . . . But he had a pretty good radar for when people were interested, and this guy was definitely pinging on it. And somehow, he didn’t really think that someone who’d brought heavy reading to a hookup den was the type to try blackmailing a celebrity in the bisexual closet. People like that had better things to do, right?

It didn’t mean everyone would find out. 

He drummed his fingers on the top of his chair, barely heard it over the ambient noise of the bar around them, shrugged.  _ What the hell. _ “Okay, you got me,” he said with a smirk, one he knew for a fact was particularly winning. Under the table, he stretched his leg out and rubbed the toe of one sneaker against the other man’s calf. “This your first brush with fame or are you jest happy to see me?”

There was a twitch of surprise at the sudden contact, but otherwise the guy held his ground. “Well, I, ah.” His face was reddening, though. “I like your, ah . . . music.”

“Thanks, dood.” With a wink, Pickles added, “What’s yer name, since you already know mine?”

“Charles.”

“Nice name,” he said, still feeling up the back of Charles’ leg with his foot. “So hey, Charlie. Wanna go appreciate my ‘music’ somewhere private?”

It was a stupid line and probably shouldn’t have worked, but the guy nodded and shut his book, using the steno pad as a bookmark. Pickles took the liberty of finishing the last of the stranger’s scotch and soda before getting up to leave the bar; Charles stowed his book in his briefcase and followed. 

Stupid, impulsive, thinking with his dick instead of his brain as usual. . . . But hey, a guy’s gotta eat. Otherwise what was the point of it all, right?

They got a motel room a few blocks away, but not until after Pickles had pushed Charles against a few darkened brick walls along the way to give him a test drive. Charles kissed back hard, eagerly, like this was some sort of fantasy he’d never dreamed he’d get to live out. His hands ran down Pickles’ back to grab his ass and  _ fuck _ he was unexpectedly strong. Pickles felt his feet practically leave the ground, literally, and moaned into it. 

By the time they got into a room (which Charles had gamely gone into the motel office by himself to pay for), Pickles had him one zip away from pants-off. That was quickly taken care of, and shirt buttons undone, and sure enough, what he found underneath the crisp white shirt lived up to expectations and then some. Pickles dropped to his knees, shivering in approval when Charles’ hands went straight into his hair. He was less appreciative when he was held back from leaning forward. 

“I, ah,” Charles panted, staring down at him with bruised lips and desire in his eyes. “I have condoms in, in my briefcase.” 

Pickles quirked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Well, it’s. . . . I mean, because, the bar. You, ah, never know, right?”

Probably smart. 

Pickles rolled his eyes but got the condom, rolled it on with his mouth, and proceeded to suck his new friend’s brain out into the protective latex. Then he tossed Charles a washcloth and a fresh Trojan and put on a show of peeling out of the tight jeans and tight t-shirt, making strategic use of the motel lotion until they could get the new condom on and Pickles climbed atop him. He eased down with his head thrown back, scrambling without looking to find Charles’ hands and press them to his hips while his head floated and spun, the perfect high. At one point he realized that Charles had flipped them over, so smoothly he hadn’t even noticed, bending Pickles bare feet effortlessly back his ears as he thrust into him with the steadiness of a drumbeat, and it all felt so fucking good. 

The other stuff was good too—the rush of being onstage, free booze and drugs, groupies whenever he wanted—but there was something in this that he needed just as much. Couldn’t give up one any more than the other, got the shakes if he went too long without it. He’d picked a good one tonight, too. Unlike his usual fare, Charles didn’t seem to be any more than slightly buzzed. Usually Pickles would be offering to share a little bit of his coke right now just to keep his pick of the night awake and functioning; instead, he was being steadily, blissfully fucked into the mattress with a controlled pressure that carried no hint of sloppiness, no possibility of passing out halfway through. Which was . . . kind of a first, and kind of felt like the best sex he’d ever had (without being on the  _ really _ hard shit, at least, where it was more about the trip than the actual fucking anyway). 

He almost wanted to offer a few lines anyway, just so this could go on all night. . . . But it hadn’t been all that long ago that he couldn’t afford to share, and old habits died hard, so he didn’t. 

At one point Charles was sprawled across the bed, head resting on Pickles’ thigh as the musician leaned back against the pillows and well-rattled headboard, idly twisting short brown hair into tiny braids that wouldn’t stay. Charles’ eyes were mostly closed when he asked, matter of factly, “I’m not going to see you again, am I?”

Pickles chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before conceding, “Yeah, prahbly naht.” He yawned, then grimaced—damn accent always thickened up on him when he was tired or coming down, and right now he was both. “Sahhry. I mean, you can still come to shows and stuff, but. . . .”

“No, it’s fine. I understand.” Charles rolled over onto his elbows, looking up at Pickles. “Knowing it’s a one time thing takes, ah, takes some of the pressure off. I’m not, ah, very good at . . . this sort of thing, usually.” He paused, looking faintly embarrassed. “I, ah, say things like that, for example.”

“Dood, me neither,” Pickles said with a laugh. It was true, and he was a little relieved to hear the sentiment echoed by the other man. He wondered, briefly, if Charles would get all weird if he admitted that he slept with women too. A lot of guys did. But that was a mistake you only made . . . five, maybe eight times, outside of doing it on purpose to make sure these trysts ended when he needed them to. Not necessary in this case, where they both already seemed to be on the same page. He yawned again. 

Men or women, all of his relationships came with an expiration date that could usually be measured in hours, and that mostly didn’t bother him because there were always others waiting when he turned around. Maybe he was kind of bummed to know that he’d never see this guy again, but he’d wake up in the morning and move on. There would always be another body to tumble into the next time he turned around to scratch this particular itch.

* * *

Several years later, past the band breaking up, past numerous auditions and brief stints as frontman for other groups that never really seemed to stick, after getting over the crushing reality of defeat and admitting to himself that he’d never be able to get his voice to go as heavy as he wanted, Pickles tapped the creased business card Nathan had given him on the edge of the desk and said, “So. . . . Hey.”

“Hi,” Charles replied blandly. His hairline was showing signs of beginning a slow retreat, there were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before, and he looked very professional and joyless in his gray suit and power tie, but it was definitely him. “So. You, ah, have a new band now.”

“Yep.” Pickles tapped the card on the desk again. It had been a very long time since he’d wondered any time he’d seen the name Charles or any of the variations if it would turn out to be  _ that _ Charles. . . . Honestly, he’d probably only done it for a few weeks before the booze and drugs had washed away any certainty that he’d even remembered the name right. He definitely hadn’t walked into this appointment with a potential manager for the newly formed Dethklok expecting this blast from the past. 

“And you’re . . . not the frontman.” 

That wasn’t phrased as a question, so Pickles just shrugged. “Yeah, that’s Nathan. He’s the one who called. He’d’ve come, but he had work today, so, y’know. Here I am.” He shrugged again. “I’m the drummer.”

“I, ah, see.” Charles wrote something on his steno pad. It was, upon craning very unsubtly to see, the words  _ Pickles the Drummer _ . “Nathan didn’t, ah, mention that over the phone.”

“Yeah, he’s not real chatty. Good guy though.” Pickles saw the faintest hint of questioning look and felt a sudden, uncharacteristic surge of embarrassed defensiveness over, essentially, nothing. “Not that he’s, I mean, we aren’t, no way, uh, no.” 

Fuck, he regretted ever learning how to talk as a kid. But he’d never been stuck in a conversation with someone who had this particular dirt on him before—even though, technically, he had the same dirt on Charles. The 90’s were almost less forgiving of that shit than the 80’s had been, in their own way. Anxious and fidgety, Pickles started patting his pockets, looking for cigarettes or something. 

Charles put his pen down with a sigh and took off his glasses, studiously wiping them with a handkerchief. They hadn’t seemed dirty a second ago. 

“Pickles. . . . If you’re worried about, ah, my discretion, I can assure you that I am a professional. We don’t have to discuss our, ah, shared. . . . The fact that we’ve met before. With your band mates, or even with each other, unless you chose to do so. Either way, you can consider that information, ah, confidential.” The handkerchief disappeared into a pocket, and Charles put his glasses back on. “And I, ah, hope that you would do me the same courtesy. Particularly if I do become Dethklok’s manager.”

_ There _ the damn smokes were. Pickles tugged the squashed, mostly empty pack out of his back pocket, but paused in the middle of shaking one out as the words sank in. “. . . Wait, you really wanna manage us?”

“Of course. The demo tape you sent me showed a huge amount of promise, especially considering it wasn’t recorded professionally.”

“Damn right it wasn’t,” Pickles scoffed, jamming the cigarette in his mouth and distractedly resuming his self-frisking, this time for a lighter. “Had to record it on a fuckin’ two year old Talkboy that Magnus stole from his niece. Thing’s a piece of shit. Where’d I fuckin’ put—”

A flick of a lighter snagged his attention, and he glanced up to see Charles holding one, already lit. It was one of the windproof ones, matte black and heavy looking.  _ Metal _ , Pickles thought, and leaned forward to touch the tip of his cigarette to the lick of flame, wondering idly if it was monogrammed. He tried to remember if they’d smoked anything that night, but came up blank and felt . . . weirdly disappointed in himself for not knowing.

“You want one?” he asked, and hoped he sounded casual instead of probing. 

Charles shook his head. “No, I don’t smoke, I just, ah, just work with a lot of people who do.”

Pickles sat back, taking a deep drag and sighing out smoke. It was strange how this encounter was making him a little nostalgic—or maybe just making him stupid. Sure, that one night stand still stood out in his memory as the best sex he’d ever had, but it had only been one night. They didn’t actually know each other, probably didn’t have anything in common. In the space of this one meeting they’d probably exchanged more words than they had back then. But. . . . 

There was something about Charles, even older. Even in that boring suit. A flicker of something—subdued interest, maybe?—dancing behind the flame as he’d conscientiously offered to light Pickles’ cigarette. 

He hadn’t felt the itch for a while, but something about Charles suddenly had him itching like crazy. 

“. . . Okay then, chief. We need a manager, you want to manage us, sounds like a good deal to me.” Pickles took a long drag on his cigarette and then smirked, one he knew for a fact was particularly winning. Just because the wristbands he had on now were black, his hair was tamped down into dreadlocks and his goatee long shaved off, and his jeans were loose enough to give his balls some room to breathe, that didn’t mean he couldn’t still live a little. 

After all, he didn’t have any stage make-up on. That made him, for the moment, just some dude. And Charles, well . . . he could clearly keep a secret. It didn’t mean anyone would find out. 

Pickles leaned forward, resting both elbows on the edge of Charles’ desk as he said, “Why don’t you tell me what you like about my music?”


End file.
